


The Larks, Still Bravely Singing

by Kajikia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-15
Updated: 2008-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kajikia/pseuds/Kajikia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It is well that war is so terrible, or we should grow too fond of it." – Robert E. Lee</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Larks, Still Bravely Singing

**Author's Note:**

> Pinch-hit for the 2008 [](http://spn-holidays.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_holidays**](http://spn-holidays.livejournal.com/) , for [](http://cathybites.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://cathybites.livejournal.com/)**cathybites** , who requested _ANYTHING - involving Sam, Dean, and lots of rough, dirty sex [...] A historical AU would be awesome._

There were three things that had made John Winchester into the man Sam knew: the Great War, Mary Winchester's death, and the Dust Bowl.

Sam kind of figured no one really came back from war, even if they survived.

Then the beach was in front of them, and Sam thought he might not have to worry about that first part after all.

***

Sam turned twenty-two in Anzio, dug in on the beachhead.

"Happy fucking birthday," Dean said during a lull in the shelling, and let Sam have his chocolate ration.

A month later, they took Rome.

"Two hundred forty-nine days on the line," Dean said in the transport, listing over a little onto Sam's shoulder.

Two hundred forty-nine days sounded too long, when you counted the days up, but Sam had a hard time remembering a life that wasn't lived in foxholes or on patrol, a world that wasn't full of the sound of artillery and the smell of blood and shit and smoke.

They got a handful of rest days in Battipaglia. Dean got Sam roaring drunk and bought him a blowjob from a prostitute.

"Happy birthday," he slurred into Sam's ear and kissed the side of his head, one arm slung around his waist.

Sam was pretty sure this was a bad idea, but he couldn't remember why, and when the woman went to her knees in front of him, he was willing to reconsider.

Her face was thin and sharp, and her eyes were cynical, but she had a low, throaty laugh that went straight to his balls, and clever, clever hands.

She slid the wet heat of her mouth over the head of his dick, and Sam gave a strangled moan. The world did a slow, lazy turn around him, and he was suddenly glad of the rough brick wall at his back and Dean's arm around his waist, holding him up.

"Shit, Dean—" he said, and the rest of the words got stuck in his throat.

Dean laughed and said, "Yeah, I know."

No one had ever done this for him, and Sam thought the only reason it was not over embarrassingly fast was the amount of alcohol he'd drunk.

His orgasm hit him in a dizzying rush, and he slumped against Dean, head down and eyes shut, riding it out. He heard the woman spit on the pavement and shift over, heard a zipper slide open.

Dean's breath came fast and harsh, and his hand tightened on Sam's hip, but he didn't make any noise. When he came, he shuddered and pressed his face into Sam's shoulder.

***

After Battipaglia, they were "on reserve," which meant practicing amphibious landing in the breathless heat of the Italian summer.

When Sam jerked off in the barracks, it was to the sense-memory of a slick, hot mouth, and the warmth of Dean's body pressed up against his side.

***

"Second verse, same as the first," Sam said over the sound of the engines, and Dean snorted.

It was the fourth time, actually, packed like sardines into the landing craft, trying not to puke as the transport bulled its way through the choppy blue sea. Around him, men were praying, crucifixes and saint medallions clutched in dirty fingers. Sam wondered if it helped at all. _The only thing you can trust in this world or the next is the ground beneath your feet,_ his father had said, walking them back from church. Then the earth dried up and blew away, and his father didn't say much of anything after that.

Then their sergeant was yelling at them to form up, and the boat was shuddering under them as the ramp went down, and Sam's breath was coming shorter despite himself.

Dean reached out and squeezed the back of his neck, quick and rough, and it was time.

They hit the beach like charging into the mouth of hell, men screaming and bombs falling and the constant, grinding clatter of machine gunfire.

They hit the beach and they just...kept going. Sam figured there were probably orders and battle plans and strategies that they never got to know, but it seemed like the plan was to land in France and keep walking until they got to Berlin.

August rolled over into September, and they pushed forward. It was relentless work, always on the lookout for ambushes and mines and the next disaster. They took a city; it was probably important, but Sam didn't really give a fuck, except they got to sleep in a building with four walls and a roof for a change. Then they were moving again, and September rolled over into October.

Summer ended faster in France, and soon the heavy, golden heat of Italy was a distant memory.

"Goddamn," Dean said, shaking out a tarp, "I don't think my feet are ever going to dry out."

Sam grunted.

"Also, would it kill them to give us waterproof tents? Or, I don't know, raincoats?"

"Yeah, it would," someone called out of the gathering gloom, and there was scattered laughter.

"Hey, I hear the 3rd gets waterproof tents," someone else said, and the talk turned into pretty filthy speculation about how exactly the 3rd got the tents.

"Shove over," Dean said, and wrapped them both in layer of sodden blankets and the tarp, pressed up close to share body heat.

There was some elbowing and squirming, then Dean huffed out a breath against the back of Sam's neck, and for a moment, it was like they were kids again, sharing a bed for warmth in winter.

His dreams were better back then, though.

***

" _Shit,_ " Sam said, and turned the bayonet thrust aside with his own rifle. The German snarled at him, and Sam shoved in closer, dropping the rifle and going for his knife. They wrestled upright for a moment, and then went down, scrabbling in the wet leaf litter of the forest floor. Sam couldn't hear anything over their harsh breaths. He wormed an arm free and stabbed the German in armpit, once, twice, and then Dean was there, pulling the guy off of him.

"Why won't they just surrender?" Sam gasped out.

"Fucked if I know. Goddamnit—" Dean said, and shot the next soldier rushing up at them.

Sam let Dean haul him to his feet. They pushed forward, and Sam didn't look back at the corpses, baby-faced boys with huge, startled eyes staring blankly at the sky.

***

The brass sent them new guys to bring the units back up to strength. Half-trained and half-supplied, they rarely lasted long.

Sam stopped bothering to learn their names somewhere in Italy. He didn't have the energy to care about anyone but Dean.

Dean learned their names. He joked with them, rough but kind, and shared his cigarettes, and told them elaborate, exaggerated stories about the women in Italy. He gave Sam tiny, worried glances every time Sam called one of them "kid" or "the new guy."

Sam pretended he didn't see them.

***

The body was just stiffening up when Sam took one of the dogtags, cursing under his breath. They couldn't afford to lose more men, and the division was spread out to hell and gone already.

He didn't realize it until he looked at the tag, and then it was all he could think about: he hadn't known the kid's name. He'd fought side by side with him for weeks; Sam had given him his last cigarette two days ago, and he didn't know his name, any more than he knew the names of the dead Germans he left behind.

Sam stared at the little square of metal in his hand, his breath forming great white clouds in the frozen air, and thought _That's it, I'm done._

He dropped the tag back on the body, turned around, and started walking.

Dean saw him and called out to him when he went by, but Sam didn't stop.

Dean followed him. "Sam! What's going on? Are you okay?"

Sam didn't say anything and they kept walking, until the forest swallowed up the sounds of the rest of their unit.

Dean finally reached out and grabbed his arm. "Sam, where are you going?"

Sam whipped around and slapped Dean's hand away. "I'm done. I'm done with the killing, I'm done with the pointless deaths, and if I ever have to take your tags, I'm going to— I'm going home."

"Sam, what the fuck? You can't just leave, it's desertion, they'll—"

Sam made a derisive noise. "Yeah, like we don't know how to disappear. Come on, why are you staying here?" He moved closer to Dean. "Do you think Dad is going to love us more, be prouder of us if we die in this fucking war?"

Dean's nostrils flared and his mouth went tight. "That's not—"

"Do you think we're fighting the good fight here? Keeping the faith?"

"Yes," Dean hissed. "Who else is going to do this? Where are you going to go to get away from this?"

Sam wanted to hit him. They stood there for a long moment glaring at each other, the steam of their breath rising together. It took everything Sam had to turn away, and when Dean grabbed his arm again, he lost it.

He punched Dean in the stomach, and then they were down on the ground. They rolled once, twice, and Sam was on top. He sat up and grabbed the front of Dean's coat in both hands and shook him.

"Why? Why should I stay?" he shouted, and Dean pulled his head down and kissed him.

It was hard and bruising and a little desperate, and Sam thought the heat of it could thaw out that part of him that wouldn't get warm.

He closed his eyes and kissed Dean back.

He collapsed down against Dean's body without breaking the kiss, and rolled their hips together. Dean was hard, and Sam was too, suddenly, but there were too many layers between them.

He made a frustrated sound into Dean's mouth, and Dean slid his hands between their bodies, pushing aside the flaps of their coats, fumbling at their belts.

Sam sucked in a hard breath when Dean wrapped his hand, cold and rough, around his dick. Sam shoved his hips forward, thrusting into Dean's grip, and Dean whispered, "Yeah, here, wait."

Dean changed his grip around and then his cock was lined up against Sam's, hot and a little slick. Dean jerked both of them off, steady and hard and twisting this thumb over the head of Sam's dick just so. The skin of his hand warmed but the calluses remained, a thin burn on every stroke.

Sam kissed him again, little biting kisses between his gasping breaths, until even that required too much skill. Dean reached up and gripped the back of Sam's neck with his free hand, pressing their foreheads together. Something was building behind his eyes and in the pit of his stomach, and when it broke, he came with a wordless cry, spilling over Dean's hand and shaking like he was going to fly apart.

Dean's rhythm went ragged and jerky, and when he came, he leaned up almost clumsily to kiss the corner of Sam's mouth.

Sam buried his face in the curve of Dean's neck. "I'll stay," he said, and didn't know if Dean heard him.

***

Everything felt a little like a dream after that, a little distant, a little unreal. Killing in the daytime and fucking at night, and endless bitter snow.

They had a few rest days around Thanksgiving, but it only meant they could bare a little more skin at night.

They were at the front on Christmas Day. The chaplain led services in the morning, and Sam drifted in the sonorous rise and fall of his voice. In the afternoon, he killed three men with a grenade, and could only think it should have been a better throw and gotten the fourth and fifth men, too.

***

Dean turned twenty-seven in...actually, Sam wasn't even sure what country they were in, whether they'd been pushed back into France again.

They were fighting house to house in some unpronounceable, half-wrecked little town, the worst kind of combat.

"Happy fucking birthday," Sam said, and Dean snorted out a laugh, scanning the roofline for snipers.

They cleared the town by nightfall, and when they came off of sentry duty, Sam tugged Dean into one of the partly destroyed houses on the way back.

"What?" Dean asked, almost laughing.

Sam pushed him up against the wall and dropped to his knees.

"Oh," Dean said, and he wasn't even close to laughing anymore.

"Happy birthday," Sam said, undoing Dean's pants and pulling his dick out. "Sorry, I ate all my chocolate for this month already."

Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Listen, you don't—"

Sam leaned forward and licked a stripe up Dean's half-hard cock, and Dean's hand clenched on his shoulder.

"Shut up," Sam said. Dean hardened under his tongue as he licked him, careful and a little uncertain. Sam took a deep breath and let Dean's cock into his mouth.

Dean's hips snapped forward and his dick hit the back of Sam's throat, hard enough to make him gag and tear up.

"Sorry, sorry," Dean said breathlessly, his other hand coming up to pet Sam's head, "oh, fuck."

Sam braced his hands on Dean's hips, holding him hard against the wall. He moved his mouth back down Dean's cock, taking it in as far as he could, pushing back against the little, half-suppressed movements of Dean's hips.

"Sam, Sammy, use your—fuck." Dean fumbled for one Sam's wrists, pulling his hand to the base of his cock, wrapped their tangled fingers around it.

Sam hummed in understanding, and felt Dean jerk. He looked up, Dean's face almost lost in the darkness, and gave him a little slack.

Dean made a tiny sobbing noise, and took it, pushing into Sam's mouth.

Sam let him fuck his mouth with shallow, stuttering thrusts. Dean's hand tightened in his hair, and that was the only warning he got before Dean came, slick-warm pulses in the back of his throat. He coughed and half-swallowed, half-spat, and Dean dropped bonelessly forward, pushing him onto his back.

He kissed Sam's sore mouth, messy and thorough, and slid his thigh between Sam's sprawled legs. Sam ground up against him and that was all it took before he was coming in his pants, hands knotted in the back of Dean's coat.

***

They marched into Dachau on April 29, 1945.

Afterwards, Sam stood on the edge of the camp, staring out into the darkness. He was smoking steadily, trying to clear the stench of that place from his nostrils, but he thought it would always linger in the back of his throat. When he closed his eyes, the images that flashed like Kodachrome photographs across his brain set off a nauseous mix of rage and horror. He pushed it down, down, into the numb, icy spot in his heart.

"You're right," he said. "We're fighting the good fight."

"No," Dean said, low and gravelly, "there is no good fight. There's just a shitty job that someone has to do."

They stood like that for the rest of the night, waiting for the cold grey dawn.

***

They took Munich a couple of days later.

They got beds in mostly intact buildings, and orders came down that they were going to stay and hold the city, and it was almost like a rest.

Then Sam got shot in the head on patrol. It was like God reached down and flicked the side of his head, slamming him sideways and down. Dean was next to him in a flash, yanking off his helmet and running a hand over Sam's temple. Sam reached up and touched the same place, and felt only smooth skin over bone. He didn't believe it until he saw the relief flood Dean's face. Dean opened his mouth, and Sam couldn't tell if he was going to yell at him or kiss him. He never did know, because their sergeant was yelling at them to _move their fucking asses,_ and they had to clear another street.

Sam got sent to the medics while the rest of the patrol went on without him, and he was sitting on the bed, looking at his helmet, when Dean got back. Dean slammed the door behind him and started stripping off his gear.

Sam held the helmet up to show him where the bullet had hit and stopped. "Must have been a ricochet," he said. "You think they'll let me keep it as a souvenir?"

Dean didn't say anything, just kissed him so hard and desperate that Sam dropped the helmet and grabbed the front of Dean's shirt. Dean tugged at Sam's shirt, and after a moment, Sam realized he was trying to take it off. He let go and Dean stripped both of them, swift and methodical and completely silent.

When they were both naked, Dean pressed him back onto the bed. The weight and heat of Dean's skin against his was shockingly new. Dean rolled his hips, a slow glide of his dick against Sam's belly.

"Please," Dean said against his mouth, " _please_ , I want—"

"Yes," Sam said, "yes, yes, okay, yes," and he meant _anything, anything_.

Dean broke the kiss, lurching back and down, spreading Sam's legs wider. He ignored Sam's dick completely and licked his ass instead, a line from his tailbone to his balls.

Sam made a thin, shocked noise, and jerked his hips up.

Dean did it again. He used the flat of his tongue and the tip of it, tracing wet circles around Sam's asshole and pushing inside him, slick and soft and hot. Sam's breath came fast and harsh, hands clenched in the sheets.

Dean slid one finger inside him and Sam hissed.

"Sam?" Dean said.

"Yes, fuck, c'mon—"

"Here," Dean said, "like this," and got Sam to roll over onto his hands and knees.

He used two fingers next, and short sweeps of his tongue, opening Sam up with little scissoring movements that had him pushing back against Dean's hand.

" _C'mon,_ " he said again, and Dean finally, finally relented, lining the head of his cock, spit-slick and heavy, up against Sam's ass.

He pushed in slowly and it burned, just the right side of too painful. Sam tried to shove his hips back, but Dean was holding him still, keeping the movement slow and steady, until he was all the way inside, draped over Sam's back, his forehead pressed against Sam's shoulder blade.

He pulled out and sank back in, still careful and slow, until Sam was chanting, "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," through gritted teeth.

"Fucking pussy," he said, and Dean laughed, low and ragged.

"Yeah?"

"Yea—oh, fuck!" Dean hit the weak spot on his elbow, knocking his arm out from under him, so his face hit the mattress. He nudged Sam's legs further apart and started fucking him in earnest, hard and fast and steady. The angle made the pain spark out into whiteness, and every stroke felt like it was cracking some cold, hard shell around him, like sheets of ice sloughing off. Everything felt raw and bright and new, and when Dean palmed his cock he came without another touch.

He went completely limp, collapsing under Dean's weight, and Dean fucked him through the aftershocks, until he was shuddering and coming, biting down on Sam's shoulder, a dull flash of pain that went straight to his dick even then. He was dimly aware of Dean pulling out and rolling off him, and had just enough presence of mind to lace their fingers together before sleep dragged him down completely.

He dreamed about summer in Texas, like a prophecy, not memory, and when he woke in the morning, the air coming in through the broken window smelled like spring.


End file.
